I have a blog post about the blown-over porta-potties all ready to go. It’s on my hard drive at home. But since I can’t get online I can’t post it. And since I can’t email it to myself I can’t post it from work. But in a nutshell, the porta-potties blew over on their fronts. Just think of all the liquid-poop jokes I mined out of that simple fact. And, thanks to Comcast (motto: Less competent than the entire Dubya administration—what’s left of it, at least), you may never get to read them.
But the fiancé and I took a break from obsessively checking our Internets connection at home on Saturday to go running! At 6:00 in the morning! In rain as black and cold as Dick Cheney’s heart! For 23 miles! And it was fun!
The cold, windy rain lasted about seven miles. Which made my shirt cling to me like man-juice on a televangelist. Then we had cool breezy on-and-off drizzle for about 15 miles. Which was actually perfect. Then on the last mile, the sun came out with a vengeance and it very quickly became hot and muggy. And my still-wet inner thighs started rubbing against each other. And I am now the proud owner a big red crotch. Sexy!
Here’s how Judge-Judy-plaintiffy I look after running 13 miles with wet hair. And a wet shirt. Notice that in my staggering geniusness, I decided to do Saturday’s rainy run in cotton. Which makes me sexy and smart:
Intermittent drizzle means you don’t have to lift heavy water bottles to your lips when you run. You can just stick out your tongue:
Here is the foggy, misty, rainy Chicago skyline taken from the south end of the running trail. Which I believe is in Tennessee:
Here we are about three miles from the finish. I hadn’t started chafing yet, but this is kind of how I looked running with my legs apart on that last mile so my thighs wouldn’t blister and fuse:
And here we all are exhausted, chafed and happy to be finished. Be very thankful your screen isn’t equipped with scratch-n-sniff technology:
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